


Man in the mirror

by Anonymous



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Self-Hatred, lots of kissing and cuddling !!!!!!, ok this was self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Hating yourself is easy but tiring. Ouma is exhausted.In this dark room, he sees a small figure in a standard gakuran sitting, back slouched, on the edge of a flimsy cot. He finds that he's far too tired for self-loathing.





	Man in the mirror

"Strangling me won't do shit," says a boy dressed from head to toe in funereal black.

 

His sad purple eyes focus on the ground in front of his shoes; his weight barely makes a dip in the mattress he's sitting on. Ouma, standing by the door after making an entrance he doesn't remember, wonders if he's always looked this tiny, shoved inside clothes too large for him and curled up into a lonely travel-sized shadow.

 

"Oh, please. Don't flatter yourself. Do you think we could kill a man with our bare hands?" He stretches his hands out in front of him for emphasis. His clone, his twin, his mirror image squints at him for a split second and then goes back to examining the floor.

 

"You're not me."

 

It's Ouma's turn to squint. "Then who the hell are you?"

 

The one in black grits his teeth and answers: "My name is Ouma Kokichi. I'm from -- "

 

"That's my name."

 

"I know."

 

Ouma plops himself down on the bed. It creaks. "Well, one of us is gonna have to change. I don't like it when people can't tell me apart from my doppelganger."

 

"You don't really mean that...Ouma-kun."

 

"Ah." Ouma smiles. It's not calculated. Just something that tugs on the corners of his lips. "You found me out. Are you really sure we're not the same person, Kokichi?"

 

Kokichi's nose wrinkles. "Duh. We look nothing alike. I have a bigger forehead and a birthmark shaped like Africa on my butt."

 

This is familiar. "No way! I have a birthmark on my butt too, except it's shaped like Antarctica."

 

It's almost...comforting. "I lied about mine. It also looks like Antarctica, so I guess we're the same person after all."

 

"W-wait, I lied too. Mine looks more like -- "

 

"Australia," they chorus, both knowing full well that neither of them have any kind of birthmark.

 

Kokichi flops over, hitting the comforter with a soft clap. "I don't get it."

 

Ouma shifts to look at him. "You don't get why I'm not strangling you?"

 

"Mhmm."

 

Their eyes meet. It's strange to see that little piece of hair hanging down in front of his nose swept to the left instead of the right. It's strange to see himself not trapped inside of a reflective surface, doomed to disappear once he turns his head away.

 

"I'm not mad at you."

 

Kokichi knows this. He frowns all the same. "Why? I've been a bad, bad boy. I signed up for the killing game and traded my life away. I'd strangle me."

 

Ouma lies down next to him, on his side. Kokichi throws him an oblique glance. "I got flattened by a hydraulic press."

 

"I'll strangle you, then."

 

He doesn't.

 

"Hey." Ouma looks up, stares straight at his doppelganger. His eyelids push at his bangs. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but you forgive me, don't you?"

 

This elicits a sigh. "...Yeah."

 

"Then stop moping around like a big negative Nancy hating your own guts or whatever. This room is mega boring and I wanna see what the rest of hell looks like."

 

"You're not me!"

 

Ouma doesn't say anything. It means _continue._

 

"You're everything I couldn't be." Kokichi's face crumples. Ouma almost flinches at the sight, unused to seeing such plain signs of vulnerability. But here in his own mind... "I don't deserve to criticize you for the things you did. You...actually did things, instead of feeling useless all the time and doing nothing about it." Kokichi glowers at the ceiling, angry at nothing in particular but needing an object to direct it towards. "I kept telling myself that I'd get my act together tomorrow, next week, next year, but it never happened. I was a lying sack of shit until the end, huh? The only useful thing I ever did was die and let you take over."

 

"That," Ouma says, poking a finger into the dark, bulky fabric of his old high school uniform, "That's it. I took that into the game with me. All of it."

 

"No you didn't."

 

"Did too!" He fixes on the next part of his train of thought before Kokichi can respond. "The only useful thing I ever did was die and let Saihara-chan take over. Sound familiar?" Kokichi bites his lip and looks away. "I kept doing awful things one after another, so I was the villain. A super duper evil villain with no heart. And heartless bastards like me don't deserve to be happy, to trust people, or to ask for help. That's what goes on inside your head, right? You can't fool me."

 

"...Still," Kokichi manages, head turned.

 

"Still what? We're the same, aren't we?"

 

"Sometimes you deserve to be hated. It's irresponsible to not yell at yourself if you make the same mistake over and over. Don't you ever feel that way?"

 

Ouma hums. "Yeah." He folds his hands behind his head. "But man, it gets soooooo boring after a while. Hating myself for this, hating myself for that. I'm a piece of shit, I'm a dishonest pig, I'm a spoiled brat. I bet if I stopped doing that I'd save a lot of time and energy."

 

"But I can't stop," Kokichi mutters. "It's automatic now. I can't poof it away on a cloud of fairy dust."

 

The plain little room is silent for a moment. Then Ouma reaches over and grabs Kokichi's hand. "Kokichi, look at me. Look into my eyes so you know I'm not lying, capisce?"

 

Kokichi stares at the hand encircling his, pale and identical down to the capillaries. His gaze travels up a white sleeve, past a flurry of black-and-white checkers, up, up, into sad purple eyes he doesn't remember being so sad.

 

Ouma tightens his grip. He wonders if his non-fictional counterpart understands the crescendoing feeling in his chest. "I am you, and I love you."

 

"Wha -- "

 

"Not like that."

 

"I know."

 

"Not like anything. I just do, okay? You love yourself. Or at least you're starting to. Take it from the Ultimate Supreme Leader."

 

Kokichi swallows. His eyes spill. "These are fake tears," he whispers.

 

"I'm such a talented actor." Ouma draws nearer, slowly closing the distance between them.

 

"Are you sure it's not like that?"

 

"No human gesture could express what I'm feeling right now, so I'm settling for the closest thing we have. But you know that, don't you?"

 

"Yeah," Kokichi says, and closes his eyes.

 

He can't tell how far away Ouma is by the heat of his breath. The approach seems to take a yawning eternity, every crashing heartbeat a decade in and of itself. Blindly, they make contact, and it feels like coming home.

 

His lips are warm, bordering on hot. The kiss is gentle, gradual. Easing together, skin on skin, and a chaste pressure that sends hot fractals blooming up his back and through his chest. They separate with a tiny, soft noise and pull away wishing that they didn't have to breathe.

 

"I have such soft lips," Ouma comments, one cheekbone up against the round collar of that plain, plain uniform. "And I'm a cutie patoot, and I'm a good kisser. Man, I'm irresistible."

 

Kokichi wipes furiously at his wet cheeks.

 

"I may not be big and muscular like Gonta or Momota-chan or those hunks on TV, but that's okay. I'm charming in my own way. I'm the perfect size for sneaking into buildings, running away from scary Harukawa-chans, and cuddling. Like this!" Ouma wraps his arms around Kokichi's torso, holding him close, closer. He nuzzles Kokichi contentedly.

 

Kokichi lets out a small whine, holding something back in his throat.

 

"And I may have done a lot of bad stuff that I need to make up for, but I deserve to forgive myself. I deserve to ask for help. I deserve to have friends and people who care about me."

 

Kokichi sobs. He can't hold it back anymore. The tears cascade sideways down his face as his mouth twists and warps in all sorts of ways, like he wants to speak but doesn't know what he wants to say. He sobs, sobs, cries. It's pathetic, but it's alright. He forgives himself for being weak right now. Ouma forgives him. Ouma strokes his convulsing chest soothingly, presses butterfly kisses to his jaw and neck.

 

His trembling dies down eventually, and his tear ducts wear out. Ouma is still there, holding him. "I'm tired," he croaks.

 

"Me too. Really tuckered out from dying," Ouma replies. Kokichi offers up a weak chuckle. "Let's go to bed?"

 

"Sure."

 

They kick off their shoes, drape shirts and pants off of bedposts and chair backs. In matching pairs of obnoxious striped boxers, they shimmy under the covers of a squeaky twin sized bed.

 

Ouma pulls them close together again and tucks the comforter in so tight they feel like the squashed ingredients of a bedtime burrito. Kokichi doesn't mind. It's just the way he likes it, in fact. Ouma knows this.

 

"Hey," Kokichi murmurs.

 

"Hmm?"

 

There's no space between them, so Kokichi simply inches his head forwards a bit and places a quick smooch right on Ouma's lips. "I think I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> hey you! 
> 
> yes you! 
> 
> u don't have to make out with your pregame clone, but love urself!


End file.
